I Be Back

I started this blog eons ago, left because my life was too public yet needed to be private. But now I’m back. I have written a book – Wings Over Avalon. I’m currently working the business end of it, which is far worse than writing a 95,000 word book. Yep, that’s what I said. I’ve got a gut full of pop rocks, anxious to start writing the other 4 books which currently reside in my noggin. But alas, book 1 must be taken to the world first. And it’s a fuggin’ ugly process, babies! I won’t keep bitching about it, or maybe I will, but I’m going to use this blog space to express myself as I journey into the publishing world. I took my crystal ball down to the pawn shop years ago (stupid fucker) but I have an inspired feeling about my future as a writer. So I’m just gonna go with that.  Today’s re-entry post will be short, as I have a letter of query to compose for perusal soon. My goal is to maintain my composure as I get rejected and rejected and rejected. Likely outcome falls more in the Yosemite Sam category – as attempting to get published forces me to follow rules, (lots of them) kiss asses (again, lots of them) and cow-tow to authority figures. Man, I am SO screwed.

A HOME OR A WAR ZONE?

People are wondering what’s going on with me. Since I don’t think secrets serve anybody, I’m going to share a personal letter I wrote to my in-laws and an attached article that “Splains everything, Lucy.”  So here it is. Judge me if you will, judge away muthuhfuckuhs. In our attempt to save a little girl from deaths door at a shit-hole orphanage, my super-mom superpowers were put to the test. 10 years later, resignation. Can’t save everybody. And at this point, I just gotta save myself. And the remaining members of our nuclear family.

Hi Mom, (& *****)

Erik  wanted me to forward you this article which my friend Tracey sent me. The first time I read it I was stunned to see my life so handily displayed in black and white. After reading it several more times I have to say it is the single most concise explanation of what I’ve spent 10 years doing. The director of Geneva’s unit, after speaking with me on the phone, told me he thought I had PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder) or some degree of it, and I had to agree. Attempting to be Geneva’s mother has changed me, I’ve said it a dozen times, and here it is in this paper. At any rate, researching more deeply the fallout of RAD (Reactive Attachment Disorder) Erik and I will be strategizing differently. Since Geneva has been out of the home, Estelle has begun to blossom. Living in this vacuum, I had not realized how much living in this war zone has oppressed Estelle’s spirit, but now it’s quite clear.  Anyway, I could go on for days.  Our family situation is described in every. Single. Sentence.  I have always viewed myself as one of the most emotionally/mentally strong people I’ve ever known, knowing very little fear and certainly rarely questioning my sanity or capabilities. But there has been a slow, almost so slow it was not perceptible, deterioration in my mental/emotional health and only by standing back and gathering this and other data, can I begin to realize just how far I have fallen from who I used to be. I mean, I know how miserable I am, but putting a face on it is another thing entirely. I only leave the house when forced. I can sleep for outrageous amounts of time. I quit school. I quit the gym. I tried to quit my band, but some tiny spark of life preservation jumped in at the last second, prompting me to beg for my job back ~ most days I cry off and on for hours. And I, am not a crying, miserable person. This is NOT who I am!  Jumpy in public, angry in public, completely distracted at all times, my mind buzzing with a thousand ways to “fix” everything, but nothing ever works. This decline is because I have been somebody’s target for almost 10 years now. Walking around your own home with a target on your back changes a person. And NOT for the better…. Yesterday I went to see Geneva on her unit and I was crying within 5 minutes, as she was difficult with me and showed no attempt to even ‘schmooze’ me for a get out of jail card. The only time there was a glimmer of any emotion was at the mention of her freedom, a word she used when I suggested that hopefully she would get better. She was not concerned with getting better, only getting ‘free.’  But it was only the concept of freedom that she responded to ~ coming home or rejoining her family was not a factor. She was pulling all the same crap on me she does each and every day, each and every hour. Last night I spent some time researching more RAD data, including reading some blogs by women who have been doing this for years and years, and suddenly I realized that even more pervasive than an underlying mood disorder, we were dealing more and more with RAD, along with the fetal alcohol and mental retardation. A trifecta of agony and frankly, flat-out family destruction.  This kid, this poor damaged soul, has just about managed to take me down….and as I fall, so do Estelle and Erik. A wake of misery. And after pouring your heart and soul into an abyss for 10 years, a sad ending to a tragic story of deprivation. I’ve never been one to be ANYbody’s target. I told her psych unit that I have “a very low tolerance for abuse.”  But putting motherhood first, I was looking at these things as challenges. Sadly, from all the research I’m reading, these challenges do not go away and in fact, I have YET to run across anybody who’s had any degree of success at fixing these kiddo’s.  All that’s happened is the destruction of marriages and families, in their heroic attempts to fight the good fight.  We are not sure what our next move will be, but at this point I have drawn a line in the sand. One patient (Geneva) is turning into 4, as she destroys the rest of us. Well, not on my watch. Throwing myself and Stel under the bus is not an option any longer….especially since there is no cure. She already broke my finger last month, swinging at me. I won’t wait for her to put me in the hospital or worse. This is fixin’ to end, one way or another. The line that most jumped out at me in this article, tho they ALL rang true, was “It is a known fact, that kids diagnosed with RAD tend to target their Moms, play it cool around their Dads, and charm strangers.”  Hello. Taken straight from our daily play book around here. In fact, the night we took Geneva to the hospital, she had been taunting and tormenting me all day ~ but it was not until Erik left to go to the store (or the gym or somewhere, I’ve blocked it out)  that she became physically aggressive towards me. Literally within about one minute. So calculated. Which you don’t want to ascribe to a ‘child’, being calculated, but she is. Then when Erik came home, it had become so combustable that even she could not control herself any more and began kicking in my bedroom door repeatedly….turning our home from a home into a violent, psychiatric ward. There’s nothing quite like being pursued by a violent person, in your own home. And my child, no less? Somebody’s gonna get hurt or killed and I think, in fairly short order unless we take measures to prevent it. I want to write a better ending to this story other than death and destruction. I appreciate all your support and advice over the years and consider myself blessed to have married into a family of such smart and loving folks.  As for me, I am trying to dig my way out and seek recovery for PTSD, given to me by my CHILD, not by war. But a mother, who is really a mother, is truly never free. My home IS a battleground (as this article describes in a way I would have never thought to use). Here’s to writing a better ending to this story….I was prepared for motherhood, not for war.

Post Traumatic Stress Disorder
in Parents of
Reactive Attachment Disordered Children

by Jody Swarbrick

Many foster and adoptive families of Reactive Attachment Disordered children live in a home that has become a battleground. In the beginning, the daily struggles can be expected, after all, we knew that problems would occur. Initially, stress can be so subtle that we lose sight of a war which others do not realize is occurring. We honestly believe that we can work through the problems. Outbursts, rages, and strife become a way of life. An emotionally unhealthy way of life. We set aside our own needs and focus on the needs of our children. But what does it cost us?

The majority of the population does not understand the dynamics of parenting a RAD child. Family and friends may think that you — the parent are the one with the problem. Families are frequently turned in on false abuse allegations. Support is non-existent, because outsiders can’t even begin to imagine that children can be so destructive. 

It is a known fact, that kids diagnosed with RAD tend to target their Moms, play it cool around their Dads, and charm strangers. Where does that leave a parent? Without strong support and understanding, the parent will become isolated, demoralized, hurt, confused, and often held accountable for the actions of their child. 

Families are simply not prepared for the profound anger that lives in the heart and soul of our RAD children. It’s heartbreaking, frustrating, mindboggling, and extremely stressful. In essence, we’re fighting to teach our children how to love and trust. Intimacy frightens our children; they have lost the ability to love, to trust, and to feel remorse for hurtful actions. They see us as the enemy. Small expectations on our part can set our children off in ways that are not only indescribable, but also often unbelievable.

Your home becomes a war zone and you feel totally inadequate. You begin to question your parenting abilities, and your own sanity. You know that your child has been hurt beyond words, you ache for them. Despite your loving intentions and actions, it’s thrown in your face.  Your heart’s desire is to provide your child with untold opportunities, a future, and all the love in the world. You want to soothe your child.  You want your child to have a fulfilling childhood and to grow up to be a responsible adult. Yet, you are met with hatred and fierce anger.

In war, the battle lines are drawn; an antagonism exists between two enemies. In our homes, we are not drawing battle lines; we are not prepared for war. We are prepared for parenting. Consequently, the ongoing stress can result in disastrous affects on our well-being literally causing our emotional and physical health to deteriorate.

The primary symptoms of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder include:

• Avoidance — refusing to recognize the thoughts and feelings associated with the trauma, this further includes avoiding activities, individuals, and places associated with the trauma.
• Intense distress — when certain cues or “triggers” set off memories of the traumatic event. You may have trouble concentrating, along with feelings of irritability, and frustration over trivial events that never bothered you in the past.
• Nightmares and flashbacks — insomnia or oversleeping may occur. You may exhibit symptoms such as heightened alertness and startle easily.
• A loss of interest in your life — detaching yourself from loved ones. Losing all hope for the future and a lack of loving feelings.

Secondary symptoms of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder can include:

• The realization that you are no longer the person you once were. Relationships have changed by alienating yourself from loved ones. Loneliness and a feeling of helplessness prevail in your daily life.
• Depression, which can lead to a negative self-image, lowered self-esteem, along with feeling out of control of your life and environment. You may become a workaholic and physical problems may develop.
• You become overly cautious and insecure. Angry outbursts may occur putting stress on significant relationships.

If you are parenting a child diagnosed with Reactive Attachment disorder, you will not escape adverse effects. It is essential to recognize that your feelings are typical under stressful conditions. It is just as essential to accept the fact that extensive stress is unhealthy. By recognizing the symptoms and seeking support, you will strengthen your abilities to cope. Counseling is readily available to families and individuals. Take advantage of resources that will help you put the traumatic experiences into perspective, enabling you to let go of past feelings by replacing them with positive skills for recovery.

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Reactive Attachment Disorder and Fetal Alcohol Syndrome
FAS Community Resource Center

To sing is to pray twice. ~ St. Augustine
                                        

5 Wankers & A Power Rack

Live from the stage - ready to share that mic!!

And so I’ve joined this local rock band.  Last Saturday night I did my first gig with them. Back in Kansas City I’d been an active member of some band since I was 18. I’ll never forget the first time I walked down the stair’s to the basement lair of the band, surrounded by guys with guitars strapped on, microphones at the ready, and I walked up and let loose “Hit Me With Your Best Shot” ala Ms. Benatar and it sounded just like the gd record.  Like crack, man.  Addiction followed and a lifetime of chasing my musical bliss, often at the expense of other things…uhh…like college, finances, etc. ensued.  But after arm wrestling cancer for 3 1/2 years, I was in no mood to accept drudgery and “hafta’s” ~ you “hafta” go to college, you “hafta” work full time. Fuck that.  Life is short and please let me tell you just HOW.  I’ve got the chemically burned veins to prove it. Anyway, since being unceremoniously dragged to Maryland as the good wife, I’d been without a band family, thus…miserable.  Thus, not myself. Rag doll, doing dishes and taking care of kids and writing durges at the piano.  A lot. In high school I used to get in trouble for writing fragments.  I refused to change them and took lower grades. Claiming “I know it’s a fragment” did not seem to help. Me and  Mr. Vonnegut, fragmenting all over the damn place. Snort.  Back to Saturday night.  First of all, I’d forgotten a few things.  I’d forgotten how bitchy I get in the 5 hours leading up to a gig.  Jeeezus Christ, do NOT speak to me.  I am quiet, pensive, insulated, isolated. Running lyrics in my head, singing multiple harmony lines silently to myself, mentally packing my gig bag. It’s a good time to just stay away from me and I’d forgotten that. Being my de-butt with the band, of course I was particularly intense, especially since I had not had a full rehearsal with the whole band!  At one practice the lynchpin keyboard player was not there and the dress rehearsal was missing the other lead singer – so no way to work thru dual vocals. That is NOT ideal. That is barely doable. I just kept reminding myself, “You’ve got 30 years under your belt, idiot.  If you can’t do this, who could?”  To make matters worse, the weather was a freak show.  You can blame me for bringing tornado’s from Kansas to Maryland, man.  I drove thru the wall cloud from hell to get to the gig. Tornado warnings going off around me, alone in my car, literally driving thru the fkn woods.  Brought a new definition to ‘white knuckling it.’  By the time I arrived, later than I’d hoped due to driving 20 mph. due to diminished visibility from downpouring rain, I was thrilled to find the bar had laid down a mandate for our P.A. that would prove to make our night on stage challenging and miserable – and I shall not go into it here because nobody gives a shit.  Band managers, bar owners and bar managers should mostly, without fail, be flogged in the town square if you ever get the chance. It’s just common knowledge…..

So we’re opening the show with NO sound check. Kill. Me. Now.  Seriously, a singer’s nightmare. But I don’t even wanna talk about the show. I’d like to talk about the secret life of a chick singer. Hey, it’s the “Boy’s Club” and as a girly person, you’re standing right in the middle of the three ring circus and you’re walking the right rope, baby. One must be sexy but not sleezy, cool but not cold, energetic but not spastic, you MUST stand up for your needs but of course, don’t put on the bitchy britches!  Oooohhh no.  Not only that, for every male in the band, there is an accompanying female of his that is integral to your success or failure in the band. Being a woman, I understand the power we have.  We have all of it ~ if we know how to use it. And I am here to tell you, if’n the womenz don’t like you, you are SCREWED. This includes the crowd. So you’re every move is being scrutinized by the almighty boob troop and if you let it, it can seriously mess with your mind ~ and self esteem?  You’d better have a freakin’ trunk load of it strapped to your ass.  And lucky lucky lucky me, I pretty much adore myself about 90% of the time….haha.  Even more fortunate, the women associated with the guys in my band rank somewhere beyond fabulous. They welcomed me with open arms, hugs, kisses, and cupcakes! Who gets THAT, for godssake?  I was as concerned about them girlies as I was the actual gig. Back home, I was always a core member of the band – a founding member. Here, I was the newbie AND the only girl.  I know I keep coming back to that, but it’s a tricky plight.  In the music industry, males comprise about 95% of the pants on stage. Skirt on the line!  On a tightrope. And once you cross over that very obvious line between the dance floor and the stage?  Well, you are in that exclusive little club called the ‘band’ and all others are not.  And they can hate you for it. Jealousy makes people…well, it’s been known to make people KILL people. But this nite, for now, the stars aligned and it was a regular love-fest up in there!  I layed out some Journey and Evanescence and the crowd was off the hook happy about it – tons of my friends showed up (driving thru that nasty-ass weather mess) and they were givin’ the love.  Also, something I had forgotten.  When people applaud and scream happy screams for what you’ve just done?  Dudes. Huh?  You mean my hours and hours of work actually have a pay day?  Ha – and that payday does NOT come from the bar, btw.  I made the same money Sat. night that I made on  Sat. night in 1981. Local musicians do not play for the money.  They play for the love of playing.  Period. The pay day is when you’re clicking along with your mates on stage and you make that eye contact with them and you’re both thinking, “Holy shit, are we lucky bastards or what?” And, “We rock. We bad. Uh-huh.”  And other such catchy things.

And now, what else I had forgotten…I had forgotten about drunk people.  Being a patron in a bar and dealing with a drunk is completely different than being their entertainment for the night and dealing with them. You can’t alienate them, with say… “Leave me alone, you asshole.”  You cannot say that.  Ever.  That is, unless you want you band fired and word to spread that you are not good for business. Drunks have to be coddled, handled, if you will, like fragile flowers. Their delicate petals, stroked and protected.  And here’s that funny girly angle again. As a female, it’s the finest line you’ll ever walk. Drunk guy, slobbering on you about how ‘great’ you are (and 10 minutes later he’s still repeating the same stuff  about how great you are and how  “I had a band once”….) and you have to nod, smile, and respond without encouraging him to take you home.  Also of note, inebriated people do not know when the conversation is over. Ever.

By the end of the night the emotional input has been quite high, the handling of everything has been exhausting, and oh yeah, somewhere in there you slammed down 3 hours of kickin’-some-ass music making which has left you sweaty, starving and questioning your own existence and your ringing ears.  I am in a rare and exclusive little gang, called a band.  Without hesitation, I can assure myself that when my kids go to school, they are the only ones with a mom in a rock band. It’s strange. It’s engaging. And I’m one lucky beotch.  I grew up with my father having band practice in my living room.  How they ever expected me to turn out normal is beyond me.

P.S.

To clarify: They have the wankers and I have the power rack.

Housewife Rocks Again

Well folks, I’ve decided to begin blogging again ~ as I finally might have something zippy to say besides regaling the maladies of my children.  Which quite frankly, I’m sick of talking about. But to crystalize that situation:  My injured one is currently walking fine and has recovered from her 14th surgery and the other one still has the I.Q. of a chunk of cheese, which I cannot change. Harsh, you say?  The truth, I decry.

Almost 3 years ago I took my most sweet “sister” and some of her besties to a local eatery/pub for her bachelorette party. We saw a band that night. They were far better than your average local band. Smokem Joe.  During the last 3 years I have gone to see them a handful of times, whenever I could pry other housewives (get out your LARGE fkn crowbar) out-they-houses for a night of frivolity. I always danced and made myself a fool, because music just does that to me, and the band took a shine to me. Fast forward to a few weeks ago – I went to see them, after a year in absentia, and before they even took the stage, 2 of them approached me “half jokingly” about joining up with them. As it turns out, I auditioned, they liked me, I joined up.  Next Saturday night I have my first gig with them. Yes, middle aged housewife fronts local rock band. WTF?  I mean seriously, WTF?  The eventual pix and vids should range from cool to sad to hilarious.  I of course, am hoping for mostly COOL baby. Went out and pumped up my rock-n-roll wardrobe a skosh ~ at hubby’s grand insistance.  It was fun, but this time ’round I have more to disguise.  *Sigh*

As my Spanish mid-term hoovers over my head like a led zeppelin, I must sign off.  Going back to college, joining a rock band.  Exactly how old am I, anyway?

Rock On Dudes,

Feisty HW

Everybody Should Almost Die

You know, when you almost die, it changes you.  In my case, almost solely for the better.

31 years ago today my life plunged into chemo hell.  Week after week (For 3 1/2 years) of noxious chemicals being sifted into my blood, to every fiber of my body.  Radiation, such a dangerous type they don’t even use it any more, blasted my still growing, frail, frame.  Oral med’s – sometimes 24 pills a day, infiltrating i.v.’s backing up chemicals like Cytoxan into my flesh, spinal taps, bone marrow extractions, radioactive dye being blasted thru me.  Can I tell you that it sucked?  Can I make you understand that dry heaving every 20 minutes for 2 days is some kind of really really bad movie?  Anyway, the point of today’s entry is not to bemoan all that horrendous shit.  All I have to do is look at photographs taken in Nazi Germany’s concentration camps and I feel like a real pussy.  My life, was a cake-walk compared to that.  Someone was trying to save my life, not thrash me lifeless.  Unless you characterize cancer as a person (which sometimes I do) – Me vs. Cancer, battle to the death.  So — I killed IT, I guess.  I win.  For now.

Everybody should almost die because it makes you…a lot of things.  It makes you smarter about life.  Death bed perspective cannot be taught, picked up in graduate school, beaten into you or given to you by a loving party.  You have to EARN that motherfucking stuff.  And once you do, life can be a downhill run from there. Besides learning what is ‘most excellent’ in life, you also develop low tolerance for certain things.  Here is a list of things that I have ZERO tolerance for since kicking cancer’s ass:

• Whiners
• Weak Willed People
• Smokers
• Professional Victims
• Addicts
• Having My Chain Jerked
• Indecisive Morons
• Negative Ninnies
• Picky eaters
• Greed
• Money Hungry Bastards
• Spoiled American Brats
• Plastic Crap At Christmas
• RWNJ’s (right wing nut jobs)
• Liars
• Mechanical Object Which Do Not Do What They Are Supposed To Do
• Ignorance
• Complacency In The Face Of Evil
• Taco Meat That Tastes Like Artificial Smoke
• Cruelty To Animals And The Aged
• Indifference

And wow…I just realized I could probably go on and on like that…scary…..and it makes me sound kind of, well, grumpy frankly, but I’m not at all!  I think I can sum it up this way:

If you are an apathetic ignorant idiot who smokes & is mean to animals and gandy’s and who won’t get off their ass and do something about injustices that come your way and you always want more than your fair share and you’re willing to lie to get it and you throw your kids lavish, ugly birthday parties and you inundate your children with gads of plastic crap each holiday without instilling the gift of charity to them instead, while simultaneously complaining about the abundance of food served to you and you whine about your life yet have no idea what you want out of it while straddling the fence and enabling the weak around you to continue to be weak and you don’t have the guts to own your mistakes and you never do what you say you are going to do AND you make lousy taco’s….then I guess I have zero tolerance for you.

Shalom.  🙂

If you were to almost die a lot, I bet you’d get a list too.

Love,

Feisty Housewife – 31 years out.

P.S.  Oh yeah.  And hunters.  I don’t think guys should be able to take guns and kill things while the things are trying to drink from a babbling brook.  Man, that’s just fucked up unfair.  Kinda reminds me of Cancer just kinda sorta….sneaking up on ME……BAM, FUCK YOU, BAM.  Unfair.

Laugh or Die

I write, tho no one’s reading.  And that’s o.k.  I still get to write.

I was e-mailing an old chum today (Mac) and was reminded of a time I laughed…too much I guess.

For my part, I’m still waiting to grow up, but suppose I never fully will.  I guess I’m kinda-sorta ‘always waiting to die’ in the farthest recesses of my mind.  My toe has been on that line and I think it fuels my behavior.  For years I was treated for Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma and was really not expected to live, so it was a 3 1/2 year ritual of needles and puke and pain and then…aaa, maybe you die anyway kid. I daresay growing up like that changes you.  Coming out of that “normal” would be like coming out of other traumatic fights as if nothing ever happened.  Aint gonna happen, boys.  Anyway, I am much like a child who won’t go to bed because they don’t want to miss anything – – I’m always the last one to fall asleep at the slumber party. Being all grown up I don’t have the occasion to attend slumber parties any more and I think that’s a total gyp man! Youth is a wonderful thing.  What a shame to waste it on children!!  (O.K, I just ripped off George Bernard Shaw, but I admitted it, so it’s all good.)   Here is an example of my dedication to fun: Once, as a teen, I had to be taken to the hospital with exhaustion because I physically could not walk.  It scared my mother to death.  I had gone to a slumber party, staggered home the next day and collapsed in my bed.  When I tried to get up, I could not.  Not only was I incapable of standing on my own, all I could do was cry rivers.  Cry, cry, cry and mumble, “What’s wrong with me?”  So off we went to my pediatric oncologists office.  I sat there weeping like a freak – mind you, I’m the kid who wrote English papers while they were extracting bone marrow from my backside.  With the pain tolerance of a mule and the disposition of Hawkeye from MASH, I was the ever joking, sarcastic, tough as nuts chemo patient.  So, Dr. Pecoraro asked me what I’d been up to.  I, between sobs, told him that I’d been at a slumber party the night before.  I ate Nacho Cheese Dorito’s (NEW back then), & orange sody pop.  Gee, maybe I was trying to kill the cancer with some combination of red dye #2 and yellow #3…..Anyway, tho not the preferred diet of a cancer patient, one night of evil orange foods certainly could not be the culprit.  I confessed to staying up until 3 or 4 and laughing a LOT.  He grilled me on this, and as I began to regale him my evening I started laughing again, rather uncontrollably, but I was also still crying, so then I was laugh-crying and my gawd, what a side show!  He took a moment and looked at my mother then at me and said, “You’re suffering from exhaustion.  Plain and simple.  Get home and get in bed.  Do not get up for at least two days, otherwise we’ll have to hospitalize you.”  The exhaustion was caused by laughter and lack of sleep. But mostly laughter. I had cackled myself sick!!   Do you know how many hours you have to laugh for that to happen?  Many many many.  And here’s something scary.  I have a cassette tape from portions of that evening to help me remember.  It’s a tonic like no other.  I put that tape in, take a listen, and suddenly I’m 15 again – my friends and I and our littler voices, innocent and goofy and sublimely unaware that we would probably never laugh like that again.  We thought we were so funny, we cracked ourselves up at every turn – singing to the Saturday Night Fever soundtrack and doing ridiculous dances to make each other laugh.  I have a similar tape which I made when I was actually in the hospital.  I carried my tape recorder everywhere with me. The hospital tape is, listening back, so sad.  I was sick-dog-sick with cancer and pneumonia on top of it, yet I was sharing a room with another teenage girl and in the middle of the night we were whooping it up like drunks!  You can hear my wheezing as I’m laughing, you can hear my I.V. dripping/clicking in the background.  The first time I heard that noise on one of my hospital tapes after I’d long been cured, I almost threw up.  That tick tick tick of my I.V., sliding poison into my veins, gave me a physical reaction to a psychological trauma.  Even writing this I’m feeling sick.  After you dry heave a few thousand times your body never forgets and old sounds/medicinal smells can bring it smack right back atcha.  Yick.  Double yick.  Anyway, the nurses had to come in and tell us to shut up numerous times, but after spending hundreds of hours in hospitals as an adult, I can only imagine how laughter coming from our room was perhaps so refreshing for those nurses.  Not only that, now I know  laughter was probably theeee best upper respiratory therapy in the world!  They’d come in and beat on my back every few hours, but my raucous laughter couldn’t have hurt that congestion any.

So I’ll make a point.  I think everyone should be taken to the hospital and diagnosed with “laughter” at least once in their lives. I had a great doctor, saints as nurses, and they threw every toxic chemical in the book into my veins, but if I had to put my money on the thing that cured me the most, I’d have to say it was laughter.  Studies now show it actually changes your blood for the better – but I could have told them that in 1977.  Not to be naive, but I believe laughter chased cancer right outta me.  For cancer is evil, and it could not abide in such a happy place.  My challenge as a ‘grown up’ is to manage to find enuf laughter to make all the woe’s go away.  And damn it, sometimes I just can’t.  This quest for fun gets in the way of being a grown up…No, being a grown up get’s in the way of laughing my ass off all night.  That’s what it is.  So “Middle Age” – get the fuck out-my-way.  Laughter calls.

Sucked In

It’s true.  I’ve been sucked in to the political vortex of this Presidential election.  I am not going to blog about the candidates or their issues, because….well….why?  In this modern age of instant-electronic-everything, people have such enormous access to information that it seems ridiculous for me to start hurling opinions into cyberspace.  So that being said, I want to talk about the “undecided voter.”  If you are undecided, you are ridiculous.

I am a poll junkie.  I have at least 4 different bookmarks geared specifically toward the daily political polls, not to mention the constant visits to CNN, Slate, Real Clear Politics, Larry King, Anderson Cooper 360, Fox, you name it, I’m checking it.  I do about 3-5 hours a day of political research and news intake.  I am also volunteering for one of the candidates, but I’m not going to mention WHO, because it doesn’t matter.

Back to the ridiculous undecided voters.  Hellooooo.  My God, the candidates are so different, as frost from fire.  The issues are so important, have you not done your research?  Have you not fact checked all the bastards?  My hubby works for the Fed’s, near the tippy top of one of the hottest button issue agencies in all the land.  I hear shit then see it in the New York Times 3 days later….I even e-mailed the reporter who broke a story last week, a story that I already knew about and had been hopping mad over.  When my hubby tells me questionable things that are going on behind the scenes I get ALL pissy in his air space and jump up and down like a blond Yosemite Sam.  I’ve even encouraged him to ambush responsible parties in parking garages and “set them straight, mister!”  I told Mr. Reporter that I’d sniff around for some more info.  Me, the house frau mole.  How sorta sexy, eh?  Better than laundry, for cryin’ out loud.  Anyway, these undecided voters have really got my surgical stockings in a knit.  Personally, I think they ‘like’ being undecided.  I believe they enjoy stringing everybody around by the nose, waiting with baited breath for them to “Pick already, PICK!!”  And from watching the numbers, it appears this undecided population has not varied by more than 2 percentage points for the entire Presidential run.  So the SAME numb-nuts are still not committing to a candidate, and driving the predictors crazy.  I think they like it.  These are probably the same wishy-washy fools who are overwhelmed by the 6 page menu at Bob Evan’s.   When confronted with overwhelming menu choices, for me it’s a simple run thru of a few questions:  Breakfast or Food food?  Hot or cold?  Healthy or evil?  Once you bust those down, it’s a breeze.  These undecided Americans need to READ.  FACT CHECK.  CARE!!!  I care so much about this election that for the first time in my life I’m actively campaigning for a candidate, and I hate that shit.  Calling people, eeewwww, asking them to also volunteer.  Going to events, hand writing post cards to women in swing states who are “UNDECIDED”, encouraging them to vote for my guy and WHY they should.  I went to one of those parties and we wrote a thousand cards.  The next President owes me a hand massage…cramp city.

So, I’ve been sucked in.  My husband cannot even wear a political button to work, as it is illegal for him to do so.  He’s not even really supposed to have a yard sign.  But it’s MY house too, so we do.

My rant for the day is “Decide Already!”  Your time is running out.

If you’ve already been “The Decider”, Kudos to you baby!  Just make sure you get to the polls on Nov. 4th and encourage others to do so as well.

Must run and prep debate food for tonight….  🙂

THAT GUY YOU NEVER DID, BUT ALWAYS WANTED TO.

O.K.

The griping, complaining, bitching, moaning, whining can end.  I’m back.  Yet to reveal more crap about my life that nobody really should know, especially if we shop at the same Safeway…..

I’ve grappled with starting an anonymous blog, so I can actually fling some real meat out there to bored housewives and lurking men.  But I’ve decided that I’m too tired and grumpy and just don’t give a shit any more. (Note the already terse language).  Stop now if you offend easily.  This won’t be dainty.  I’ve decided not to care about taking heat for my blood, umm, blog….and the nicey nice days are effin OVER!  They bore me.

Today’s topic of interest that actually peaked my interest enuf to get me writing again:

THE POWER OF THE NON-HOOK-UP

Indeed, if you have ever suffered from “Holy hell, I wish I’d done that guy when I had the chance – itis” then you may relate to this post.  The holy hell comment is immediately followed by the “& now it’s too freaking late” remorseful sigh.  Pity party follows.  It’s too late because you’re married, which is also followed by a pity party.  But I digress….

This FaceBook thing.  People, it’s damn dangerous.  Sure, it can be all warm and fuzzy, hooking up with chums from elementary school, long lost teen buddies, long distance family and friends of every ilk.  However, there looms an alluring threat!  It’s a trap, and I fell into it today like a junkie wallowing in a kiddie pool of cocaine.  I ‘ran into’ a….guy.  A blast from my past who, for all intents and purposes, has been absent from my life for a quarter of a century – but not entirely absent from my mind.  My sick mind!  Gawd, you and your sick-o wackin’ mind! This “guy”, and let’s just call him “Mac” was a high school pal who I’d had a lot of laughs with, but I was far too innocent and naive to ever let things escalate. Myself, my nickname in high school was “Mary Pure.”  STOP laughing, all y’all bitches, and you know who you are. Anyway, I was a very chaste young lady, religious, thought of my body as off limits for godly reasons as well as the empowering Janet Jackson philosophy of “What have you done for me lately?” Whatever, it worked.  I made it thru high school a virgin, and not even to 3rd base. (Naa-naa-nee-boo-boo).  Mac and I and another gal pal of mine traveled as a group.  And when I went into the hospital my junior year with complications from my chemotherapy, they were the only ones from my school who had the guts to “drive downtown” to the hospital to see me.  He (they) earned mega points in my heart for that and those points still hold up today.  Back in the ice age of 1979 it was still rather taboo to have cancer.  To be sick and bald.  No one shaved their heads in sympathy, there were no ‘walks’ or ‘runs’ or support groups. You groped thru cancer primarily alone, and for me, that was a 3 and a half year churn up a long, slow hill with primitive chemo from hell.  From hell.  For nowhere else could generate that kind of torture.   Aww, waaa waa waaa….knock it off already! A couple of years after we graduated, Mac and I hung out some.  But oh, did I forget to mention he was my first real kiss?  Oh my god.  Somehow, and do not ask me how, I got him back into my bedroom at my parents house and we ended up on my waterbed!  Yes, the 70’s strike again. And my mother, The Warden, I cannot tell you where the hell she was because that woman could pinpoint my whereabouts at any given moment waaaay before the days of the GPS.  Hell, my mother WAS a GPS.  And I feared her.  So post high school, Mac and I had a couple of ill fated dates, the last one taking place in his parent’s hot tub.  In retrospect, all I could remember about Mac was, “Man, he liked to fight.”  Verbal bantering, bratty come backs, just kinda difficult.  And I was not then, nor am I now, a fighter.  I like to have fun.  No bickering, pleeease.  Yawn.  Soooooo, to the here and now.  Mac and I jotted a few lines back and forth on FaceBook (DEADLY FaceBook) and then he gave me his number so we could have a decent exchange like human beings instead of asking relentless questions and penning responses.  So I, in my adolescent glee, grabbed the phone as if I needed air and the receiver was a fully charged oxygen tank with my name on it!  Mind you, at this point I’m simply eaten alive with sentimentality and curiosity.  His FaceBook photo was damn ass cute, too – so I would be lying if I tried to play this off as all sweetness and light.  It aint.  But I am married, to a more than gorgeous guy (I married up, way up) and am NOT looking for a fool around. When Mac answered, I kid you not, I began giggling.  Giggling! He sounded the same, so I had to moronically blurt that out while feebly attempting to control myself.  “Ooo, you sound the same!”  WHAT a jackass.   We played catch up for almost an hour.  I had forgotten what ended our last date.  He had not.  He remembered many things I had forgotten which was amazing to me.  Of course, that also flattered me, and so the descent into feeding my dish doing, laundry toting, boring ass housewife ego came into play.  Feeding that beast…it’s the same beast men have, only men often do a piss poor job of controlling it.  Look, I know when I’m a-huntin’.  I recognize the need to be pined for, remembered, lusted for long after the fact.  And today when Mac fed the beast, with many subversive remarks and even a few obvious ones, I was not only hunting for it, I was out for the kill!!  For a few minutes it was not about the kids, their maladies, the schedule, the GD chores.  And to hear him admit that he laments missing our chance to “hook up”, well dear friends, my beast hung up with a belly full of satisfaction.  And Mick Jagger says you can’t get no.  I was satisfied.  So much so that I went to the gym and did 5 miles up hill faster than ever before, smiling with every step.  And that was wrong.  I should NOT be happy about talking to Mac today.  I should NOT be enthralled with that conversation.  I should be on my knee’s begging forgiveness from the Lord and my husband.  But I am not.  Instead, I’m writing this.  Because I know I cannot be that different from other people.  Could I be such an evil freak, as to garner so much titillation from this questionable Mac encounter?  Hell, I don’t know.  I’m glad Mac doesn’t live in my town.  Our paths will not cross.  And the best part of that is that we get to “wonder” for the rest of our lives what would have happened if our timing had been different.  Owww, the fire down below can never be put out!   And that’s the beauty part – sheer beauty!!  Theee most gorgeous kind of pain!  That squirming in your chair kind. Our Lego’s will never click together (ah, you can take the slut out of the mom but you can never take the mom out of the slut!) – I told my husband about the e-mails and even the phone call.  He’s so used to my male friends that it did not phase him, God bless his little heart.  And for all I know, he may read this and YICK on that!  No thanks. And if my hubby had penned this instead of me I’m certain my initial reaction would be, “Why you son-of-a…how DARE you…”  Bottom line is this:  I am glad that Mac and I never got together in that special yummy way.  He was a fantastic kisser, so I get to take that with me.  And if we ever speak again perhaps now that I’ve vented in this forum I can contain myself somewhat and not gush like a spaz.  Yes, spaz.  I got out my old yearbooks today, too.  I transported myself to another time.  A time when I did not have so much on my mind, or so much on my plate.  A time when I did not know the all consuming love that we mother’s have for our children.  That love.  It keeps me in line, period.  I am not willing to risk the sanctity of that love for anything, which I made clear to Mac today….tho, while still mentioning to him that I do enjoy playing my piano naked…..

It’s powerful, that Non-Hook-Up.

I firmly feel that wanting something that you cannot have is a good thing. After all, you can’t have everything.  Where would you put it?  (Bo-Ann, get it out of the gutter.)

Milk & Mercy

So today I was downloading some tunes and making a new spring mix CD for my car, a yearly tradition. I did this today to distract myself from the news, from my own malaise, my continual sense of helplessness about the world. Hell, about my own kids. I can’t control one, I can’t fix the other. Or is it I can’t fix one and I can’t control the other….the solution of course is to be more pro-active and get my hands dirty doing something to help people in need. It just seems I can never quite put my finger to it. The thing I should do. It was this same sense of frustration I felt after both of our adoptions. I got two out of there, but what about the rest? The ones left behind, forgotten. Charitable and aid organizations pick up this ball like pro’s and toss it around, spreading help to the world. God, they are amazing. Those people are amazing. We give them money; a decent chunk. I suppose that helps assuage my painful, guilt ridden soul.

I was making my playlist and looked down to see two songs listed one after the other: “Milk” & “Mercy”. Those were the titles. My mind flew to Burma, China. Yes, thats exactly what they need there – Milk & Mercy. I pictured a toddler, homeless and wandering in rags. Maybe she had parents left, maybe she didn’t. She needs milk. I imagined a mother, weeping and wailing over her dead baby. She needs mercy. And altho I constantly use music as therapy (saves thousands of dollars) today there was no escaping the agonies of the world. No amount of distraction could prevail. I began to run the gauntlet of world problems and questioned if milk & mercy could really help. Milk is even better than water if you’re starving, right? (Don’t make me go into ‘if it’s not spoiled and what about lactose intolerance’ etc. This is my imagination, in my attempt at a solution -and I hand the villagers glass after glass of cold, whole milk and they smile as they drink and maybe they even get little milk mustachios….) And mercy? Well, who couldn’t benefit from a fistfull of that? Like, HEY – Could mercy change evil doers? Jesus would say, “Yes.” Then I cogitated about some really over the top evil bastards – they make the news every friggin’ day – they throw babies from bridges, mutilate animals…is there ANY amount of milk or mercy that could ever help those wicked pricks? And frankly, by the time they’ve done their evil they aint gettin’ ANY of my milk and I’d just-asoon throw the switch as to show them mercy. See, that’s how I know I’m not Jesus….not even close. I guess maybe they needed the milk & mercy long before they went evil. That’s part of what motivates me to keep working with my daughter who has so many post institutional problems. She spent so many years in a developmental wasteland that she’s not normal and I don’t know if she will ever be. My goal is to avoid her becoming a sociopath. The theory being; If I give her enuf Milk & Mercy now….maybe, just maybe…..

Because I don’t want to READ about her later. I don’t want her to BE the news. It falls on me to attempt to thwart the possibility. And when I think about the agony of the world tonight my heart tightens. I want to grab-up all those babies and make them safe again, tho they are not. I want to take those parents back in time and return to them their precious, beautiful children. But I cannot. Powerless does not even begin to cover it – the incompetence I feel. So it seems what I am left with sits right here in my own home. Today she’s lied to me several times, broken rules and and now I hear her father in the other room telling her to “DROP IT, DROP IT!” and I don’t even know what the hell it is, but I do know that she’ll continue to push his buttons until he wants to throw her into the back yard for the night. But we can’t do that. My only option, and I do feel a bit trapped here when I say this, is to get up, go in there, and give her something she needs. To head upstairs, lounge into my fat clothes and crawl under the covers is not acceptable. I have to go now. Milk & Mercy needed in the next room.

Fixin’ To Pee Laugh

Friends, I’ve been reading waaaay too much news.

Sucked into Myanmar, glued to China, our own race for the big, White House. Wars, wars and MORE wars….I refresh my cnn news home page about every millisecond. But today I discovered, by clicking on a link on their crime news page, this web site:

http://www.trutv.com/shows/tsg_presents/index.html

Filled with IDIOTS, and true, full blown raging MORONS! – And I, with my most current lovely peri-menopausal self diagnosis of adult onset asthma, have been enjoying a mid-morning laugh attack from hell. Being a professional singer for 20 years, my lungs have always been a mainstay for me. So reliable, high quality air bags for sure. I’ve been known to hold a sustained note for 60 counts, no lie. And you oughtta see me blow up balloons! A regular air compressor with blond hair. (Very popular before a party! And often very popular after the party, for other reasons unmentionable here) But suddenly, and much to my dismay, I’ve begun wheezing like a Studebaker suckin’ wind thru a missing piston. Anyway, I’ve been watching this trutv, affiliated with The Smoking Gun, news of the dumb video thing and now need to rifle thru the house and find one of Stella’s Albuterol gizzmo’s and suck down a hit or two! Not only is the wheezing an issue, but I’m frankly – – – working mighty hard to…to… stay dry…’ya know what I mean? DISgusting, indeed. Hey, I have no pride. Obviously. Fixin’ to pee laugh is a double edged sword. It is always a good thing to be laughing that hard, studies show your blood chemistry literally changes for the better. Not so hot tho, soggy drawers. I’m bringin’ sexy back…..with that kind of talk. Ohhh, like it’s never happened to YOU…sittin’ there looking down your high and dry almighty nose at me. Please, who are we kidding here?

I’m so blog dumb – I cannot get the link to transfer, just go to CNN’s home page for news, go to the crime header and click there, scroll down to ‘Your Daily Dumb’ and click there. It’s The Smoking Gun Presents: Worlds Dumbest Criminals – I promise it will cheer you up. Unless you’re one of the featured imbeciles. Good thing I can’t be arrested for being technically incompetent.

When we went to China to get Estelle I did not want to leave. The people were darling to us and they historically have endured harsh conditions and even harsher government rule. I wish my parlor were full of them now, looking at the Daily Dumb with me and having a good laugh. Language barrier not an issue when you’re watching the police and fire dept. grease down a would-be robber who’s managed to get himself stuck in a fast food grill vent and they’re trying to pry his fat ass out of it! Ahh, his little tennies dangling above the grill, tipping and touching here and there – HYSTERICAL! His Mama must be SO proud. An episode of Roseanne once had her jammed into her diner’s competitors grill vent as well and her sister Jackie was trying to grease her down and out. Didn’t this guy ever watch Nick At Night for cryin’ out loud?

Try to have a laugh today. It’s good medicine.

High & Dry, Spoiled safe and sound in the USA,

Feisty Bloggin’ Housewife